


Keep it All the Year

by JinkyO



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, Strained Relationships, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:07:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Machine's primary asset, John Reese is accustomed to saving lives. Detective John Riley doesn't always have that luxury. On Christmas day, a disturbing crime leads to John reaching out for comfort.<br/>- A stand alone follow up to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3011597">Discretion</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep it All the Year

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Discretion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3011597) by [JinkyO](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JinkyO/pseuds/JinkyO). 



John's footsteps were muffled in the deep carpet pile. So quiet that the skinny white cat that crouched behind the sofa didn't leap in terrified surprise until John was nearly on top of him. The cat twisted in the air, knocking a low hanging ornament off the Christmas tree, then came down awkwardly with his back arched. After a tense moment, the cat dashed from the living room and down the hallway toward the back bedrooms.

Stooping, John picked up the ornament and reattached it to the brightly decorated tree. There was nothing store-bought here. Handmade ornaments, little clay figurines, painted and strung through with yarn hung interspersed with candy canes, frosted pine cones, lopsided Styrofoam snowmen, and paper cut-out stars.

_Kayla - 2008_

John flipped the star around to the crayon decorated front and let it drop back onto the tree. Behind the tree, Kayla was posed front and center, flanked by her brothers in the Peletier family portrait hung over the fireplace mantle. Five homemade felt Christmas stockings were tacked below.

He circled the living room back to the open front door to the house. With a better understanding of what had happened inside, the two squad cars parked on the street outside had shut off their flashers. Up and down the street, in the gray gloom of early evening, holiday light decorations, one by one, flickered to life.

"Give us some room," came a voice from the house.

John stepped aside so the MEs could get past him with the dead body. He watched as they carefully navigated the narrow path of cleared snow down the front steps and across the yard and out past the perimeter tape to their van parked behind one of the squad cars.

Kayla sat in its back seat, looking through the rear windshield as the techs loaded her father into the Crime Scene Unit van.

"Riley, we're good to go here. Just need you to sign off on this."

Detective Riley turned away from the sight of the young girl watching the van pull a careful U-turn in the narrow residential street. He took the clipboard and scrawled his name at the bottom of the evidence intake report. "Get me a copy of this as soon as you can, okay?" Riley said as he passed the paperwork back to the lead crime scene unit detective, Orozco.

"This one's open and shut, Riley. Low priority. I'll get you a copy and the routing index next week."

"That's fine," John said. "I'll have the interviews typed up by then."

"It's a damn shame." Orozco turned back to look at the dark red outline of oxidized blood staining the carpet. "This is my third call today. You'd think they'd have the decency to at least wait until tomorrow."

The sun had fully set now. Across the street from the Peletiers, two white and gold lit reindeer adorned the neighbors front lawn, caught mid-gambol beneath a tall, brightly lit Spruce tree.

The uniformed officers had returned to their squad cars. Lights flashing, they made the U-turn. John watched Kayla's face, pressed to the rear window, disappear into the night.

He didn't bother answering Orozco. John stuffed his notebook into his pocket and walked down the steps to his car. What had happened in this tidy little house would be a tragedy on any day.

 

Lionel had the day off with his kid. As a Christmas present to his partner, John had spent the day finishing their shared backlog of paperwork. Typing up the Peletier interviews would add another two hour to his workday but, as Orozco had noted earlier, the case was fairly clear-cut. Murders, emotional and impulsive, happen every day. John didn't imagine he'd put in too many investigation hours beyond building the case file for the District Attorney. That was the damn shame.

In reality it took nearly three hours to transcribe the interviews and his notes. He was just finishing the last cover sheet when his cell phone range.

"Detective? I hope I'm not disturbing you?"

"I was due for a break anyway, Professor. Got something for me?"

"No, nothing like that. Things have been quiet today," Finch said over the line.

"I wish I could say the same here," John said, cradling the phone with his shoulder as he clipped the typed sheets together. "So, what did you need?"

"I... wasn't sure how late you'd be working tonight. I just called to offer you holiday greetings."

John put the notes down on his desk and caught the phone in his hand. "Merry Christmas to you too, Finch. Are you at the office?"

"Yes. Entertaining guests."

John leaned back in his chair and smiled at the understatement. "You working all night?"

"I'm sure I'll find something to do. As I said, its been quiet."

"Hm. I'm finishing up here in a few minutes. Maybe I'll stop by to say hello to the guests?"

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone before Finch replied. "I'm not sure they're necessarily... in the mood for visitors at the moment."

"Then I'll stop by and see the dog. Are you okay? Need me to bring anything by?"

"We've already eaten. There are leftovers, however, should you want some."

"Let me wrap things up. I'll see you all in a half hour or so."

"That sounds excellent, Detective."

 

The subway station headquarters was quiet when John finally arrived. He scanned the dark recesses of the vaulted space as he walked across to the subway car. Bear lay on his bed outside the door and John paused to scratch his head before stepping inside. Harold sat hunched over his desk reading, while above him, the Machine ran some sort of diagnostic test.

John perched himself on the edge of Finch's desk. "This looks festive," he said, waving his hand towards the bank of computer monitors.

Harold put his book down. "Miss Shaw was quite explicit in her description of the repercussions I'd face should I dare bring in a bit of holiday cheer."

John lowered his voice and tilted his head towards the yawning dark walkway leading back to the small platform area Shaw had claimed for herself. "Are they both back there?"

Harold answered with a lift of his eyebrow. In an equally hushed tone he added, "Root stopped by this morning. Apparently the Machine gave her the day off. She and Miss Groves have spent the day...celebrating."

John dropped his head, his cheeks flushing warm. With her cover identity blown, Shaw was fairly confined to the subway all the time now. The first few days she took her frustrations out on the punching bag John installed for her. After she managed to knock the heavy bag off of its S-hook, Root had offered up her services as a distraction.

"Why didn't you go home?" John asked incredulously.

Harold's eyes went wide and he gestured emphatically at the screens. "I'd just started on this project. Also, I had no idea they'd have so much stamina!"

John brought his hand to his mouth to cover his amused smile. "So you were trapped?"

"Is it too soon for us to look into alternate living arrangements for Miss Shaw and her constant companion?"

"It might be easier for you to start working from home. How much longer on your project?"

"Another five minutes," he said after checking the timer.

"What did you have for dinner?" John asked, nodding towards the mini refrigerator at the far end of the car.

"Chicken fried rice from Hop Lee."

"You're doing Christmas wrong."

"Says the man who only just returned from a fourteen hour workday. I'm sorry, detective, do you also moonlight as Santa Claus?"

"No, but I do have a pork loin waiting at home in the fridge, and a couple of bottles of Pinot Noir. If the Professor and his dog don't mind a late Christmas dinner, that is?"

"We might get a number."

"Shaw can work tech support and earn her rent. Did I mention the vanilla bean ice cream?"

"That's hardly fair."

"They'll have to come up for air eventually. Leave a note on your computer."

"John, just because we've regained some protection from the Machine, I still don't think it's a good idea for me to stay the night at your apartment."

John smile slyly. "Who said anything about staying the night?" He leaned down and whispered against Harold's ear. "But I miss having you in my bed and I'd like it if you did stay. If you wanted to."

"John," Harold mumbled.

"Bring your book. I've still got the couch. You can stay up and read if that's the option you want." John stood and rolled his arms back in a stretch. "Either way, if the only action happening here is going on in the back room, I'm headed home."

Harold pulled a yellow post it from the dispenser and wrote a quick note for the ladies. "You said you have wine? How long have you been planning this?" Harold asked, saving the data from his now-completed project.

"We haven't really had time to ourselves between your trip to Hong Kong and everything that went down with Dominic and Elias. I picked the bottles up a couple of weeks ago hoping we'd get a free day."

Harold shut down his computer and stood to grab his coat and Bear's leash. "Perhaps we should take the rice with us? Its late. I don't know that I could eat another meal tonight, and after such a long day at work, I'd hate to inconvenience you by making you cook."

"Cooking for you is never an inconvenience, Harold. I miss it."

"Well," Harold said, flustered by the open admission. "Be that as it may, it's still late."

 

In the end, they left the Chinese for Shaw and Root and drove back to John's apartment empty handed. They left the batteries in their mesh net phones this time; John didn't mind the Machine listening in. By now he knew that the only way to truly keep something from the Machine was to keep it in his head.

"As you can see, the place hasn't changed much."

Harold hung his coat and surveyed the room. "That's new," he said, eyes landing on the small plastic Christmas tree set up on the dining room table.

"You can thank Lionel for that. His idea of a joke."

"And yet, you put it up?"

John shrugged. He'd put the tree up because, along with Lionel's wisecracks about John's immunity to the charms of the festive season, was a truth - the last time he'd had a tree was the year before he left home for basic training. He watched as Finch approached the little tree and his thoughts, once again, turned back to Kayla Peletier, her face pressed to the squad car window as the uniformed offers drove her away from home.

"Seemed like a waste to throw it out," he finally answered.

"It's a nice tree. I'm glad you kept it," Finch said, nodding his approval.

It was easy to fall back into the routine of sharing his personal space with Finch. If the choice had been left to him, they wouldn't have gone back to their separate lives after the Machine finally reached out to them. Harold had been unnerved, and John understood why. Still, he missed the mask of normalcy they'd shared in those months without the Machine.

He watched Finch and Bear disappear into the kitchen. He unbuckled his gun belt and snapped off his badge, storing Detective Riley's gear on the shelf by the door then made his way across the room. A soft smile creased his lips as he heard Finch filling the Bear's feed bowls, followed by the clap of the pantry door and rattle of the silverware drawer. Confident that he could find everything on his own, John dropped down in the center of the couch and tipped his head back against the rest.

"How was your day?" Finch asked, returning with the wine a few minutes later.

"The usual." John accepted a glass and patted the soft cushion next to him. "If there's any good news, it's that it has been a while since I've gotten a call that traced back to The Brotherhood or Elias."

"I suspected that would be the case. I haven't heard from our friend since our last conversation."

"Just give it time. You don't kill a man's partner without paying retribution. Elias is planning something."

Finch nodded solemnly. "I fear the day when his plans come to fruition."

John was struck by the melancholy note in Finch's voice. Someday, one or the other of them might easily find themselves in the same situation. When the time came, John had always hoped that he and Finch would meet their eventual fate together. He took another sip of his wine.

"Professor Whistler?"

"Yes, Detective?"

John sat his glass down and extended a hand towards Finch for his glass. "Merry Christmas," he said softly as he sat the second glass next to his.

Harold placed his hand on John's knee and answered, "Merry Christmas to you too."

John inched forward for a kiss, fully prepared to pull off should Harold signal him away. Since the return of the Machine he and Finch had moved to a limbo of 'friends with increasingly less frequent benefits'. John would gladly bring him home every night if he could but the older man had been clear that his own needs were different. So, John settled for what he could have, time together working in the subway station, the occasional late night dinner together, and this, the rare times Finch accepted his invitation to come back to the apartment they used to call home.

Harold didn't push him away and John drank in the kiss. He eased his hand along Harold's body, crowding into his space, desperate for the taste of what had been.

When Harold's hand moved to John's back, he took it as permission to continue. He caught Harold in his arms to stand them both up and led the way back to his bed.

In the sanctuary of darkness they undressed each other. John's greedy lips explored Harold's body as it was revealed bit by bit, reacquainting himself with its particular curves and hollows.

To the consternation of his newly appointed department shrink, John wasn't one for talking about his feelings. Neither was Finch. It was safer for them both, John assumed, to take their relationship for what it was. He guided Harold back to the bed then climbed in behind him, savoring the feel of holding him.

Trying to define the relationship now, without the easy ruse of cover identities and mutual benefit, would only muddy the water and dredge up all of the reasons Finch had for why they shouldn't be doing this. John wasn't interested in the logic anymore.

"I didn't buy you a Christmas present," he murmured as he circled his fingers around Harold's cock and rocked his body forward.

"I'm sure you'll come up with something," Harold said, his hand closing over John's. "You've always been good at improvising."

John grew hard in the cushioned soft friction between Harold's ass cheeks. Pressing a kiss to Harold's shoulder, he reached back for the nightstand and fumbled in the dark for the lube. After a moment's thought, he pulled the drawer open again and grabbed a condom.

It had been long enough that he was no longer sure if they were on a bareback basis anymore. It was easier for him to assume they weren't than to ask and have Finch confirm it as actuality. He flung the wrapped package down near his pillow.

While John got the supplies, Finch had pulled one of the firm pillows from the headboard to bolster his body in a comfortable position. He lay on his good side, his back to John. From the angle, John could tell he had one arm wrapped around the pillow while the other moved in a slow, familiar tug.

John curled back into position, spooning his long body around Harold's and chasing kisses down his head and neck. He worked one-handed in the tight space between them, squeezing the lube generously over his cock. As he prepped, Harold brought his arm back and began stroking a lazy path over John's hip.

"Is this okay?" John whispered as he fit himself along Harold's back.

"Perfectly," Harold said and rolled back to rest against John's chest.

Nuzzling at his ear, John slipped his arm around Harold's body and held him close.

"Tell me if I need to back off," John said, and slowly began to ease his slick cock between Harold's thighs. He shuddered with pleasure at the unsteady little moan that escaped Harold's lips as his cock rode past his balls then emerged from the tight fit of soft thighs to glide just under Harold's own cock.

"I think I can handle this just fine." Harold cupped his hand at the base of his cock, catching hold of both of them - then he flexed his inner thighs in a tight grip over John's shaft. "You tell me if _I_ need to back off."

John nipped at Harold earlobe, acknowledging that the bar had been set. He had no idea when, if ever, he'd get Finch into his bed again. This was a transitory comfort at best, but a comfort John needed.

He raked his fingernails up Harold's chest and caught a firm hold before he pulled back and thrust forward again with resolve. Finch swung his arm back and clutched at his hip, opening himself up to John.

This is what John missed most.

Words, when he needed them to express his wants, needs, and fears, often failed him. Words got wrapped in pride and self preservation. The danger with words was that they could be misunderstood, twisted until the things he _thought_ he'd said were no longer recognizable. Actions was more honest. With each deep thrust between Finch's willing thighs, John preached a sermon.

He fucked him until he felt all the words fall away and there was only Finch in his arms and the first edges of his orgasm on the horizon. He stilled his hips, crushed a kiss against Finch's neck, and held on until the rising surge abated. Finch dug his fingers into John's hip and cried out for more.

"Are you sure?" John asked in a ragged whisper.

"Oh course!" Finch snapped. "You can't bring us that close then decide to quit."

Finch was a master of words.

John groped a free hand over the bed for the discarded condom. No sooner than he clinched it in his teeth and tore it open, he felt Finch go stiff in his arms.

"Harold?"

Finch eased himself across the bed until he could prop himself up on his pillow to face John. "I went to Hong Kong as a business traveler, Mr. Reese, not a sex tourist." His eyes shifted over to the condom and then back to John's stricken face. "Do you need it?"

"No," John answered quickly. "I didn't..."

"Then there's no need to make things awkward," Finch said, plucking the latex from John's hand and tossing it aside.

John bit back a groan. "Will you stay the night?" he asked softly and didn't particularly care that the words came out like a plea.

"Tonight," Harold answered. He cupped his hand under John's jaw and pulled him down for a kiss. "There's no where else I'd rather spend my Christmas," Finch said when he pulled off. "Here, with you, Mr. Reese."

John couldn't trust his own words so he answered with his body. He guided Finch back to his side and prodded him open with gentle but insistent fingers.

Tomorrow would bring a new number or another Kayla, John couldn't control that. But this: his slow, steady claiming of Finch's body, his strong grip on Finch's hip, stabilizing him as John snapped his hips and drove himself deep into the tight and familiar heat, this he could control.


End file.
